


And In Darkness, I Stand

by primasveraas



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Alexsandr Kallus Needs A Hug, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kallus's bad leg, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e17 The Honorable Ones, Post-Episode: s04e15-16 Family Reunion – and Farewell, to about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:21:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28662369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primasveraas/pseuds/primasveraas
Summary: Kallus' leg is never quite the same after Bahryn. But then again, neither is he.
Relationships: Alexsandr Kallus/Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios
Comments: 51
Kudos: 133





	1. Bahryn

The cold is, perhaps, worse than the searing pain in Kallus’ leg. At this point, the numbness is a welcome sensation. Alexsandr cannot feel his fingers or his toes, and he hopes that the chill will spread to his leg soon enough.

He glances towards the transponder, still blinking faithfully, and exhales, watching the plume of air swirl in the wind before him.

It’s been- an hour- two? since the _Ghost_ arrived to save Garazeb. Kallus looks to the spot in the snow where the ship had landed, but flurries have already covered the indentation. _Good._ Perhaps, then, the Empire will have no clue that he was trapped here with another, that he’s only made it this far because of the mercy of a rebel.

A traitorous thought sends a shiver down his spine- maybe if he were wiser, he would have taken Zeb’s offer to go with the Lasat and his crew.

No. Kallus wraps his arms tighter around himself, nesting the meteorite against his chest, pressing it against his pounding heart. He has no doubt that the rebels would treat their prisoners more kindly than the Empire- but Alexsandr is still their enemy. He has chased them across the galaxy promising their demise, has tortured one of them. The singular act of neglecting opportunities to murder Garazeb Orrelios when his back was turned is not enough to grant him forgiveness. Stars know that the Empire- that Kallus himself- would not show Zeb any mercy for saving Kallus were their positions reversed.

Kallus shudders involuntarily, leaning against the alcove. The tip of his nose is exposed to the wind, which is the most miserable part of this experience. He wonders how long it takes for frostbite to set in, then considers how he would move forward if his nose froze off. Or, even, if he lost his leg, first to the break then to the freezing cold.

Despite himself, he snorts. The ISB would likely give little concern to his injuries. Perhaps it would even be better if he were mechanically enhanced. He could be stronger, faster, less puny and breakable. This, of course, is more optimal than Agent Kallus with a limp, Agent Kallus who needs time to recover and heal. Just cut the damn thing off and move on. Maximum efficiency, minimal time and cost.

Maybe that’s why it’s taken so long for the Empire to rescue him. Maybe that’s why they may not come at all. One man isn’t worth the fuel, the effort it takes to track a foreign signal to some remote moon.

Would it be better to die here, a man so faithful to the Empire that he wastes away waiting for them to save him? Or to spend the rest of his life a prisoner of the Rebels, hated by his captors but at the very least, alive?

He seems to have made that decision long ago, when he was just a boy, not yet a man. A cadet, not an officer. He made the same choice again and again since then. To serve the Empire, to give his life to the cause long before it ever killed him.

This is what his loyalty has earned him. A broken leg and slow death, alone after rejecting the mercy of his sworn enemy.

There are worse ways to die. Less honorable ones, slower, more torturous ones. Lonelier ones, unkinder ones, because at least Zeb was there, in the beginning. He could have perished because of that beast in the cavern, he thinks, and chuckles at the memory of their near escape.

If the Empire does not come, Zeb will be the only one who understands Kallus’ fate. When Kallus disappears, when he is not there to try and foil the rebels again and again, Zeb will realize that the Empire never cared to pick up their agent, that the fool who rejected Zeb’s offer died alone on the ice moon. He doubts the Lasat would share this information with anyone else, and he dismisses the notion that Zeb would ever go back to check, to see if Kallus’ remains lay beneath the snow.

His mother would not be surprised, Kallus thinks dryly. Alexsandr Kallus, missing in action. Declared dead however many months later. It is the fate he knows she expected for him, ever since he announced his plans to serve Imperial Intelligence. His father extended approval with a small nod, but his mother had stared at him, lips pursed, and said nothing. Kallus doesn’t remember when he talked to her last. Perhaps her birthday or anniversary, half a cycle ago. He hadn’t answered her call on his own birthday. A new insurgent cell had popped up, and he spent the entire rotation arranging a task force to address the threat.

They are all going about their expected roles, then. Kallus, dying in service to the cause, the Empire, allowing his death as to not divert from more important matters, and his mother, mourning quietly and quickly because her only child was not strong enough to survive.

He hates surprises, so it is just as well. There’s nothing wrong with something steady and predictable, even if that includes a slow, stupid death alone on a moon nobody in the galaxy cares about.

Kallus sighs, closing his eyes and leaning back against the rock. The wind howls, louder than ever before, and another chill rips through him. He presses his eyes shut, but he cannot make himself any more compact, cannot shelter himself from the climate. He’s tired, aching- he will sleep, for now, he decides. Someone will rescue him and he will wake, or he will go quietly in his sleep.

The exhaustion fogs his mind, depriving him of sense and reason. As he nods off, he imagines a warmth next to him, the strong frame of a Lasat leaning against him. It is the only comfort he can fathom, but it brings him peace in his last seconds of consciousness.

The mechanical whir of a ship disturbs him. Kallus blinks his eyes open with some difficulty- there are snowflakes in his hair and on his eyelashes, sticking them together. He can’t feel anything, which is mostly a relief.

His first comprehensible thought is that the _Ghost_ has come back for him. This conclusion makes the most sense, but as his vision focuses, he realizes that the ship is too large to be the little rebel freighter.

He straightens, suddenly at attention. The Empire is here for him. With some difficulty, he stands, staggering to his feet unsteadily. A fresh wave of pain spikes in his leg but he grits his teeth, tucking the meteorite under his arm, dragging himself forward and into sight.

Two Stormtroopers are making their way towards him- regular troopers, not Snowtroopers, their armor hardly discernible against the snow. They spot him quickly enough, but Kallus does little to acknowledge this, biting down hard on his lip and forcing a neutral expression.

“Sir,” one of them says. “Is there anyone else with you?”

“No,” Kallus bites out, trying not to let his teeth chatter. He pushes past the two troopers without looking at them, making his way up the ramp. Each step is agony, but he forces himself to put weight on the broken leg.

“Do you need medical treatment, sir?”

Damn. He must be limping. Kallus pauses for a fraction of a second, then continues as if he never heard anything. He finds a seat in a lonely corner of the shuttle and remains there in silence. He hears the pilot confirm they’ve made contact, that they’ve rescued Agent Kallus, and the shuttle takes off.

Thawing out is miserable. His leg sears with pain, his fingers throb, yet Kallus stares straight ahead, each second passing in silence. He’s the first to depart when the shuttle arrives on the cruiser, again without a word of thanks to his rescuers.

The trek back to his quarters is slow and agonizing. It’s as if he’s invisible, aside from the occasional bow of the head or _sir_ muttered lowly as he passes his subordinates. Even Konstantine doesn’t care so much as to look up from his datapad. Nor should he. The detour is over; the inconvenience addressed.

He makes it back to his small room, unable to help his limp as he staggers through the door. Even when he’s alone, Kallus maintains his composure until he’s sitting, the meteorite placed safely on the shelf behind him. It’s then he lets out a short gasp of pain, reaching towards the splint on his leg.

His hands are shaking- the pain is blinding, and his vision wavers. Any numbness and adrenaline are gone, and he has lost all barriers between him and the pain. Kallus groans, ripping the splint off messily. It comes off in pieces, first the makeshift bandage unraveling, then the brace clatters to the floor. He chokes back a sob as he brushes against the broken bone and fresh hurt spikes through him.

He debates how to proceed- he cannot now go to the infirmary and be whispered about more. In his quarters, he has meager medical supplies, in addition to those he just arrived with. At beginning of the night shift, perhaps he will be able to retrieve more- get some bacta, make a neater splint.

Kallus starts now by ripping away his pants, grasping the fabric firmly, and tearing it in two. From there, he sheds his armor, casting it aside on the cot. He stands slowly, leaning heavily against the wall and staggers forward, but his leg gives after the first step.

On his hands and good knee, Kallus drags himself forward, pulling himself towards the refresher. It is arduous and subhuman, but there is no weight on his leg and this relief alone is worth the crawl.

It is in this position that he dry-swallows the pain medication, that he washes off the blood and grime. As the water pours over him, stinging the wound, he lets the shameful tears fall, disguised by the fall of the shower. He can think of little more than the agony erupting in every fiber of his being, and he is more tired than ever more.

But the medication- of which he took far more than the advised dose- does its job. Kallus can stand, mostly, an hour later, when the makeshift splint is redone under a fresh uniform. Scuffling in the hall signifies the change to night guard, and once the noise fades away, Kallus steals away to the medbay, taking the least populated route he can think of.

Only a few meddroids are there, all of which he dismisses. He rummages through the drawers of supplies on his own, grabbing what he can and stuffing it into pockets.

The bacta will bide him. The injury will heal, in time. And tomorrow, Agent Kallus will resume his duties, loyal and at the service of the Empire once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A oneshot turned miniseries? It's more likely than you think.


	2. The Relentless / The Chimera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fulcrum is born out of pain, and feeds off of Kallus' wrongdoing to survive.

The weakness does fade.

The next day is better, if only for the bacta and the pain meds. No one asks him about his unfortunate detour- not that his inferiors would dare, nor would his superiors deign themselves to care- so he writes his report on the incident, omitting all details regarding Garazeb Orrelios, and files the matter away.

Kallus doesn’t limp. There’s no need for that anymore, not when he can stifle or otherwise ignore the discomfort. He’s sitting most of the day anyway, his hours spent planning a new angle of attack to capture the  _ Ghost  _ crew. He skips lunch to avoid the trek down to the mess hall and more pain with it. If this is the cost he pays for a show of strength, then so be it.

It’s been a very long time since he’s felt so weak, he thinks, vaguely dazed, as the day creeps into the afternoon. He’s lightheaded and probably dehydrated at that.

Kallus sighs, tossing the datapad back on his desk. He’s behind on his work. Between the Lothal rebels and the other insurgent cells that keep cropping up, he’s been stretched thin.

That’s unfamiliar, too. He’s not used to  _ losing. _

But here he is. For the first time in years, he’s sitting at his desk, weak, injured, struggling to keep up with a group of pesky rebels that should have been eliminated years ago.

And that’s the icing on the stupid cake: it’s been a small eternity since he’s bent the rules. Kallus lied on a report- he lied about saving a rebel.

He groans, burying his face in his hands. Two rotations ago, if Kallus had discovered one of his subordinates doing the same, he would have recommended them tried and executed for treason.

He’s earned that much, in all likelihood. It would make things simpler. The action and the consequence swiftly following, rather than skirting around reality in a desperate attempt to save his own skin.

That’s not what occurred yesterday. Yesterday, he saved Zeb when he didn’t have to. Yesterday, Zeb did the same for him-  _ literally carried him out of harm’s way-  _ and offered to spare Kallus once more after that.

If he had taken him up on the deal, Kallus would probably be more comfortable, he realizes with a snort. The rebels have next to nothing, and they’d still take care of his wound.

Yet here he is- a top agent of the Empire, with resources worth trillions of credits at his disposal- and he’s sitting alone in his office with a growling stomach and a broken leg.

The line of thought is dangerous and foolish. It’s the kind of thinking that could get him killed. In fact- he has killed over messaging like that. The first indication of rebellion is questioning the might of the Empire, so they cull the curious and loud. Nip it in the bud, so to say, before the spark can catch flame.

Damn. Kallus has half a mind to turn himself in. But in the past 48 hours, he doesn’t know who he’s more culpable to- the rebels or the Empire.

It is, above all else, highly doubtful that any of these wonderings are markers of a good ISB agent. It’s stupid, for one. He should have killed Zeb the moment he made it to safety on Bahryn. Failing that, he should have turned himself in and begged for forgiveness, kissed Konstantine’s boots and sworn allegiance to the Emperor over and over.

It’s unlikely that sniveling would have worked, even if it is one of Kallus’ finely developed skills. No, it was over the moment he decided not to shoot Zeb.

So he has a choice- turn himself in and be jailed or exiled, at best, or move past what happened and reprove his faithfulness to the Empire. Own up to his actions or reach his full potential under the Empire, save for one little hiccup.

The latter seems the obvious choice. But Kallus still remembers the chill of the ice moon, the agony of waiting for the Empire to rescue him, his sole relief the Lasat next to him-

No.

Today, he serves the Empire. Kallus is sure he will not be caught in fudging the report. He’s one of the best, after all, and there’s no evidence to damn him unless he or Garazeb Orrelios decide to confess the acts of their mercy to the Empire.

It’s odd, then. Kallus is ISB, an Imperial agent. He deals in secrets and lies, so he should be accustomed to circumstances such as these.

But never before has he kept a secret with a rebel. He and Zeb are the only two people in the galaxy who know what really happened.

Zeb is the only person in the galaxy who has witnessed Kallus’ mercy.

And thus that is another thing he shares with Garazeb Orrelios. These secrets, a day together in the snow, memories of a burning planet, and a life debt formed around a tenderly bandaged leg.

It feels too significant to dismiss as an anomaly.

Kallus’ fist collides with the training dummy once more, a satisfying  _ whack!  _ splitting through the air.

His muscles ache, from his bad leg to his abdomen and back. One fall and he’s disrupted his whole body.

His spine, in particular, throbs. The limping, as infrequent as it now is, has shifted his weight and alignment. It hurts, yet he trains and pushes, a relentless wave crashing against an unyielding seawall.

Kallus knows what his body is capable of. He knows his limits, and he knows how to expand them. He knows what he should be able to achieve.

He throws his whole body into the next punch, and loses his balance. He pivots forward, twisting on his injured leg, and pain shoots through him, spiking white-hot through his every nerve. In a desperate attempt to save himself, he sticks his hands out in front of him, but his momentum is too great, and he crashes to the floor anyways, the world spinning, he nauseous and bruised.

The training mat smells of sweat and rubber. It’s disgusting, yet Kallus is so disoriented that the stench is the first thing that makes sense, that grounds him through the vertigo and agony.

Childishly, foolishly, he wants to cry. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, burning, and Kallus raises himself up slowly, shifting so his leg is kept off the ground. He ends up on the floor before the dummy, half stuck, half afraid of the hurt that will follow when he stands.

Even he will accept that he cannot train any more today. So Kallus picks himself off the floor, painstakingly and gingerly, then unwraps his knuckles and wipes the sweat from his brow. He closes his uniform over his undershirt, and retreats to his room to lick his wound.

He’s still weak. Bahryn fractured him, and it’s doubtful that he’ll ever be at full capacity again. His strongest days are past him and he never even realized this fact to enjoy them while they lasted.

This misery is nearly enough to occupy him as he showers and changes. His weakness is troubling, unfortunate, damning. His career could be in jeopardy, should the injury get any worse, and he cannot think of a day that the leg hasn’t bothered him in all the time that has passed since Bahryn.

But it does not suffice. The pain, the threat to his livelihood, the sudden onset of his physical decline- it is not enough to distract him from the thought that whisked him away to training in the first place.

_ Tell Garazeb Orrelios we’re even. _

So the debt is paid. Is that it? Is it over? Has he recompensed to the rebels, at least for that one day? He owes Garazeb nothing, not anymore. He owes the Empire his own life for his treason, for breaking the promises that founded all purpose in his life.

If he thinks about it, he still owes the rebels. He’s saved one of them, once, and one of them spared him, once. But what does he owe to them for all the years spent chasing them across the galaxy, for the torture and death he’s inflicted upon them?

It’s his life’s work, to have done so.

They don’t deserve it.

The realization sends a jolt of shock through him. Kallus sits up in bed, clutching at the sheets with a frantic grasp. He feels short of breath because-

It’s never been about deserve. It’s never been about compassion or mercy, or secrets, or care. The Empire is founded on and fueled by control, by order, by power.

Bahryn stripped him of all of these things. He was helpless, lost, totally dependent on Zeb to survive. Each breath of air on that accursed moon was attributed to another, and Zeb granted them all to Kallus without a second thought.

What is the reward for doing the same?

What does he owe for this debt that can never truly be repaid? Because he has deprived the rebels of so much, for so long. Even he, who has finessed the system and risen to the top, now suffers, alone and miserable.

Few others have had the luxury of mercy and kindness under the rule of the Empire. There are not enough insurgents to compensate for all that the Empire has done.

He could change this fact.

The discomfort and weakness become normal in due time. It is no longer a conscious effort to hide what remains of the limp, nor does he rely on a generous dose of medication to get through the day.

Kallus has healed. He has changed, too.

What started on Bahryn and continued with Sabine Wren has blossomed into something larger entirely. Kallus is no longer a mere Imperial officer. He is Fulcrum. He is caught between both sides of the war and has taken a page out of Garazeb Orrelios’ book- he has chosen mercy, to save rebel lives because they do not deserve to suffer under Imperial rule and at his own hand, not anymore.

He is still responsible for a great many deaths, now rebel and Imperial alike. If the whole galaxy were to know his sins, there would likely be very few beings who would agree that Kallus doesn’t deserve harsh consequences for his actions.

But he does sleep better at night now. Kallus plans to repent every day for the rest of his life, however short or long that might be.

He doesn’t know why he does it. To help a desperate rebellion and hinder a cruel Empire, yes, but beyond these satisfactions, he stands nothing to gain.

That is perhaps the starkest difference between the two groups. In the Empire, he works only for himself, a cog competing against other worthless mechanisms so that he may benefit, so that his superiors may benefit, so that the ringleaders of the whole operation may finally see an entire galaxy within their grasp. The rebellion consists of a ragtag group of misfits, fighting for what remains of their families and freedoms.

Kallus is doing it for them. To dedicate his life to those he has hurt before may grant him some peace. He’s a fraction of a step closer to being able to live with himself, at any rate.

Today, he is up at the crack of dawn, a habit he shares with the commander of his most recent station- Thrawn. Except, while the Chiss rises early to develop strategy or train, Kallus is gathering intel to send to rebel sources.

He’s sitting on the floor of his small room, back aching from hunching over the datapad and encryptor, his legs stretched before him, mostly bare, as he hasn’t bothered to shave or dress yet. The ground is cold, yet it keeps the edging tiredness at bay, a sharpness that eliminates the heaviness pulling his eyes closed.

Kallus shifts again, then freezes.

His right leg is straightened before him- he knows this because the muscles are strained, stretched too far, yet the leg is bent slightly to the side. There’s a patch of skin just below his knee that is discolored and rippled, a bump indicating where the bone below was broken.

That’s wrong. He hasn’t noticed the abnormality ever before, but there’s only one reasonable explanation for it.

He’s unhealed, after all.

It is no matter. He’s already in an incredibly vulnerable position, and he has nothing else to lose. If the faulty leg serves him until he is caught or dead, then there is no need to concern himself with the issue.

Most days, he does not wake up in pain.

Instead, any discomfort builds over the course of the day. Kallus wakes and goes about his morning with no hindrance. At midday, he might notice a twinge if he stretches and moves about, but he is not truly bothered until late in the evening, when he has trained or ran or spent more than an hour standing. It is something he can survive, provided it does not get worse.

Today, Kallus wakes up in pain.

He’s awoken before his alarm goes off, which is not atypical, but Kallus realizes almost instantly that his sleep was disturbed because of his leg, which feels like lead, burning where it attaches to his hip. He gasps aloud in the security of his quarters, waiting for the agony to cease.

It does not, ten, then twenty minutes later. He throws his pillow at the chrono  _ beeping  _ at him incessantly to get up, then swears under his breath and hops on one leg across the room, slamming the button on the chrono to make it stop, then stumbling into the refresher to gulp down whatever medications he has saved.

They will not act fast enough, nor are they powerful enough to truly solve the problem. But Kallus dresses, every muscle in his body tense, and he gets to work.

The Empire still lies in wait, led by Thrawn as he develops the appropriate strategy to eliminate the rebels. Kallus is grateful for the moderate respite from action, though it comes at the cost of working closely with the Admiral day in and day out. Thrawn is unnerving, not just to his enemies, but to all in his proximity. Kallus will be uncomfortable in all meanings of the word today.

And as expected, when Thrawn arrives to Kallus’ office, the pain has only doubled. Sitting does not alleviate it, and standing makes it worse. Focusing is a herculean task, and behaving normally is no more easily accomplished.

Thrawn’s presence demands these things in perfect condition. Kallus stands to greet the Admiral, offering a small nod in greeting, then Thrawn opens a map of Lothal in the middle of the room, gesturing to the places of interest. He knows the planet well, his experience aiding Thrawn’s careful study. The discussion is frank and swift, and it should be easy to follow.

Kallus’ leg is on fire. It is the worst pain he’s ever been in, rivaling the initial break and spreading through his body, which is rigid and tense and out of his control. He concentrates on standing still, on not letting his mask of neutrality slip, and it’s then he realizes Thrawn is looking at him.

“Agent Kallus.” He hates the red eyes watching him so closely, he  _ hates  _ them. “Are you quite well?”

“Of course, Admiral.” Kallus is a good liar, above all else. He wants to scream out loud, collapse to the floor sobbing and pounding his fists.

“Ah.” Thrawn appraises him a moment longer, then turns back to the detailed chart, his smooth voice returning to its drone about Lothal’s power supplies. Kallus’ vision is blurry at the edges, and he cannot read the inscriptions on the holo three feet away from him. The colors seem wrong and the buildings are colliding, and Thrawn’s words slip away into nothing, nothing, until they form an ungraceful, wavering song. White creeps into his sight, threatening to overtake the black of his office, and he thinks he is going to die like this, standing on a leg that should have healed months ago.

He becomes aware that Thrawn has stopped talking.

Kallus must reply- the fog clouding his brain is too thick, he doesn’t understand what’s been asked of him, and he is hopelessly lost with no way to return.

He bites down on his tongue, _hard._ The new pain is sharp, thick and stinging. His brain reels at the sensation, but he doesn’t gasp, blinking once to clear his eyes of tears, and with the motion, his vision returns. Thrawn his standing with his back to Kallus, hands clasped neatly behind him. The pause is too comfortable for any question to have been posed, and Thrawn has been particularly punctual today, so perhaps he has not bothered with a loaded question that the Admiral already knows the answer to. Kallus decides to weigh his bets by maintaining the silence as he tries to remember the last of Thrawn’s words that he was able to understand.

There is still a rushing in his ears, the white noise overpowering all else; Kallus bites down harder, and the galaxy bursts with sound once more.

“....but I am confident that this strategy will succeed, once the laborers are under control. Do you agree, Agent Kallus?”

“Yes.” He’s too strangled; he clears his throat and straightens, a fresh spike of agony emanating from his leg as it bears more of his weight. “Handling the working class is the first step towards uniting the people under Imperial rule.”

“Good.” The Admiral must really be as close as he can get to approval, because he does not turn around to stare at Kallus again. “I expect we will be discussing this matter further at a later date.”

“Yes, sir.”

Thrawn bows his head in acknowledgment, and Kallus does the same. The urge to yell returns again as Thrawn exits the room, his pace terribly slow and measured. Kallus is sure he is shaking; his clenched fists are no longer enough to disguise this fact, but the door hisses open, then closed again, and Kallus is alone-

His muscles give out all at once, and he collapses to the floor in a heap, limbs convulsing and his entire body trembling. Kallus’ breath is ragged and uneven, and he only realizes he is crying when he feels the wet heat on his face.

His leg is a horrible mix of utter numbness and stabbing pain. Kallus attempts to right himself, but every small movement only brings more agony. The world is lost to him, but he inhales. Exhales. Breathes.

Taste is the first thing to return to him. In his mouth, thick and warm, he recognizes the copper of blood, gushing from the hole torn in his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not me finally doing research to make this canonically accurate and realizing that the Empire never actually came for Kallus on Bahryn and that he was picked up by a trader instead and had to find his way back to the Empire on his own.... (this chapter is brought to you by Wookiepedia).


	3. The Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Against all odds, the rebels survive. This time, Kallus is one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am distinctly aware of the lack of research that I’ve done. I’m doing my best to be canon-compliant here but sometimes I don’t have the energy to remember that a shower is a sonic and not a shower… so here we are.  
> Additionally, please take any medical jargon with a grain of salt. I am not a doctor, and I’m mostly going with “yeah that seems like it could happen” as far as realism goes.

The day of reckoning arrives.

Thrawn appears in the doorway, and Kallus knows that it is over. The Admiral taunts Kallus with the jamming device, the Fulcrum symbol flashing across the small screen. He has failed, and at best, he will die quickly for this discovery.

But Kallus is not one to resign himself to whatever miserable fate lies ahead. He will go down fighting, and there remains a chance to warn the rebels of the danger, as cryptic and brief as the fragment of his message is.

Kallus surges forward, attacking Thrawn with all his might. The blows are rapid and unforgiving. Thrawn targets his bad leg, yet the adrenaline overpowers the pain. Still, it is not enough to overcome Thrawn.

“Your technique is good. But… limited by your training in the Imperial Academy. Predictable.”

Thrawn is quick, strong, precise. More so than Kallus, but he does not need to win and he does not need to escape.

He throws the helmet first, which Thrawn catches easily. But the blow to his legs knocks the jammer out of his hands, and Kallus crushes it beneath his boot.

It is like clockwork, what happens next. He stands his ground, he is overpowered.

Thrawn is observant, a tactical master. He knows the weaknesses of everyone around him, and how to use them to ensure that he is the most powerful in the room.

It’s no surprise, really, that a series of swift kicks are delivered to Kallus’ right leg, which is healed but not correctly, functional, but not without pain.

Kallus lands on his back and is about to rise again when Thrawn looms over him, and brings his heel down on the barely-fixed bone. 

His vision goes white instantly; he’s pretty sure he screams, but that fact matters less than the poison in every cell in his body, than the agony worse than death as the bone shatters.

It is worse than ever before. It is worse than the first break and the flare-ups, and the burning sensation after field missions. It is worse than the night he couldn’t sleep, overcome by the need for more bacta, convinced that he would be better off without the leg, when he desperately wished he had just sucked it up and gone to the medbay after Bahryn.

But here he is. He cannot even think to get to his feet, then Thrawn lifts Kallus by the front of his shirt and delivers a punch to his chest, sending him flying into the night air, where he collides with the durasteel railing.

That might have hurt, he registers dully, but it is insignificant compared to the agony in his leg.

He loses.

But the message got through. He has not failed in totality, and the rebels have a chance.

That he lives is cruel. Thrawn tortures Kallus, hangs him up by his wrists like a slab of meat, and beats him. He asks no questions, and Kallus knows he would not break, but the lack of interrogation is still a relief.

This, he deserves. Under Imperial law, it is only fair that a traitor is punished. Kallus would take this over an interrogation, which is sure to follow after the assault on the rebels, and he can only hope that Thrawn doesn’t deign to do so personally.

He does not want to break. He hopes he dies before he reveals any secrets of the rebellion- not that they trusted their spy with much, in the first place.

At the end of the day, the rebels prevail, as is so ingrained in their nature to succeed against impossible odds. What’s more is that he apparently  _ does  _ have the heart of a rebel- some of their lucky nature passes to him, and he finds himself safely aboard the  _ Ghost,  _ thanked by Kanan Jarrus and Hera Syndulla alike. It is surreal, and strange, but for the first time in months, he is safe. At peace, even, at least for now.

But he is left alone. The rebels are making do with what little they have. They are busy, and Kallus, who once wished for the end of the entire movement and every being involved, remains in a corner of the ship that rescued him, his mind racing.

That is one benefit to it all. He’s particularly sharp now, going over what Imperial Intelligence he has memorized and can share with the rebellion. He feels little pain and can even stand, and the adrenaline coursing through his veins fuels him until the _Ghost_ rendezvous with a rebel command ship.

He’s the last to embark, hanging back until Hera claps him on the shoulder, nearly pushing him out the door.

“Come on,” she says, nodding towards the bustling hallway. If she’s tired, she doesn’t show it, and a small smile pulls at her lips. “I’ll take you to medical.”

“I’m fine,” Kallus insists, because he feels so. “It looks worse than it is, Captain.”

“Hera,” she corrects him instantly. “And I chose to believe that if you come with me to Command then go to the medbay straight after.”

Kallus nods, because he has confronted Hera’s will a great many times and seldom triumphed. They trudge through the unfamiliar halls together, Kallus bowing his head to avoid the stares of those passing or congratulating Hera, who promises a quick debriefing then rest before reorganizing in the morning. He doesn’t imagine it will be as easily delivered to him as it will be for her, but he thinks of sleeping in a room surrounded by people he isn’t actively betraying, and perhaps talking to Garazeb soon, and the thought calms him.

A spike of pain shoots through him with his next step forward. Kallus falters, then grits his teeth and presses forward.

“Agent- Kallus,” Hera says, frowning at him. She touches his arm, gently, and Kallus is surprised at the care. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he promises. Every step hurts progressively more.

She regards him, wary, and Kallus pretends he does not see the concern painted across her face. However, she continues to lead him towards the command center once he takes another step without wincing.

The pain is too familiar, and logically, Kallus knows that it will overcome him soon. But if he can suppress it for now, if he can confront the Rebellion's leadership first, then he can deal with the injury, once placated by an understanding of his future with the Alliance.

Hera indicates that they're close, her montrals swishing as she peers around the next corner. Kallus inhales sharply once her attention diverts from him, suddenly aware that he'd forgotten to breathe.

She waves him on. Kallus' leg feels like lead. He tries to go through the door, and stumbles, lightheaded.

"Kallus, are you sure-"

"Yes," he wheezes, bracing himself in the doorway. Officials in the command center look up at him- he recognizes faces but can recall no names.

"Kallus-"

He stands straight up, preparing to look Hera in the eye, but his leg buckles under the weight, and he cries out in pain. She's supporting him now, her hands under his arms, and she's saying something, her green eyes filled with alarm.

Kallus tries to look up at her, assure her that he’s fine, but the hurt widens and spreads until it is burning at him yet again and Kallus cannot remember a single word he was going to say. He’s doubled over, and he can’t speak, nor see, and the agony consumes him, and he’s falling, falling- then all goes black.

Kallus opens his eyes slowly. His eyelids are heavy, and his exhausted body begs him to go back to sleep, But he’s here, in the  _ Chimera’s  _ medbay, and he’s not sure if he’s yet safe-

He blinks again. Someone is next to his cot- someone-  _ Zeb. _

The Lasat is slumped over, clasping Kallus’ hand. Kallus stirs, reaching for Zeb, and croaks out his name.

Instantly, Zeb wakes, sitting up straight. “Kal,” he gasps, leaning forward. “You’re up.”

Kallus nods, too tired to speak. His brow furrows, but two questions come to mind, and he can’t decide which to ask first.

He doesn’t know where he is, but Zeb is here, so he must be safe. That issue is resolved then, so:

“‘s my leg still there?”

Zeb looks confused, glancing from Kallus to his legs beneath the sheets. Then, he huffs out a laugh and takes Kallus’ hand again.

“Yeah, Kal, it’s alright. You’re gonna be okay, you hear me?”

Kallus nods again, satisfied. That is enough for now, and he lets his eyes slide shut.

He is alone when he wakes again, save for the meddroid fiddling with the tubes in his arm. Kallus groans- his head hurts, and he still feels tired, but other than that, the pain is not bad.

“Kallus,” the droid says, its overly-large eyes peering at him. “You are awake.”

“Yes,” he agrees, then groans as he stretches, running a hand over his face. There’s stubble on his chin and his beard. He’s been out for most of a day, then, possibly longer. And he’s here, on some Rebel ship, and not the  _ Chimera.  _ This explains the droid, which looks ancient, scratched and dented. It appears to have been taped together in more than one place, and Kallus smiles to himself.

“We know nothing of your medical history.” The droid tells him. “Although I have conducted many tests, there are still questions.”

“Okay.” Kallus is pretty sure that his questions (where is he, what day is it, where is Zeb) should have higher priority, but he is too out of it to protest, so he nods. “You may ask them.”

“Excellent.” A beat. “What is your first name?”

He laughs, a deep, rumbling sound emitting from deep in his throat. It’s been a long time since he’s laughed like that, and his voice was already scratchy from underuse. “Alexsandr,” he says, then spells it. Perhaps he is a good spy, after all. He doubts that anyone in Imperial Command knows his first name, either, though this is attributed to a lack of care rather than insufficient information.

There are a few more basic questions about his background and history. Kallus realizes that he’s in the Rebellion’s system now, and he wonders what his file says.  _ Alexsandr Kallus. Coruscanti. Previously Agent Kallus, ISB, Fulcrum. Wanted by the Empire for ten counts of treason; wanted by the Rebel Alliance for one hundred crimes against humanity. _

He snorts. The meddroid, which was turning away from him, pauses. “Can I help you, Alexsandr?”

“No,” Kallus says quickly. “I mean- yes. Do you know where Garazeb Orrelios is?”

“The Lasat? He has been here for the last twenty-four standard hours. I do not know where he went.”

Oh. Kallus feels heat flame his cheeks, and a monitor next to him beeps. His blush deepens when he realizes that his heart monitor made the sound; his heartbeat has just spiked.

“I will get a medic to speak with you about your leg.” The droid looks at the monitor, then back at him. “Do not excite yourself further.”

Kallus coughs, unable to look at the droid. “Yes,” he mutters, ashamed. “I will do that.”

The medic is a Rodian, who speaks in a soft tone and seems to barely remember where she is. This fact isn’t particularly comforting, but she is kind enough and patient with all his questions.

His right leg had a severe initial break that never healed correctly, causing weakness in his tibia and impeding the muscles and tendons in his entire leg. The strain that later followed only made this worse, and almost two days ago, the leg was shattered again- he broke both his tibia and his fibula. Bone fragments have punctured both his muscle and his flesh, but in short- it will never heal right, and Kallus will be affected for the rest of his life.

She explains that they operated on him, once Hera and two other rebels dragged him into the infirmary. It was easier to keep him under after he had passed out, and they did the best they could trying to prevent infection and further blood loss. He’s also covered in extensive bruises, including on his ribs.

“How do you feel?” The Rodian concludes, fiddling with one of the machines next to him.

“Like I could run forty klicks,” he mutters, staring down at his leg. Right now, it’s wrapped in bandages and some sort of brace.

She brustles, looking shocked. “I thought I made it clear that wasn’t possible-”

“It’s-” he sighs. “I understand.”

“Well, I-”

“Kal!” The budding argument is halted in its tracks; Zeb stands in the doorway, disheveled but grinning. “You’re awake!”

“I am.” He’s not, technically- he’s hasn’t yet attempted to sit up, but Kallus cares very little about the nuance, and Zeb makes his way over to Kallus’ bedside. 

“Good.” Zeb scans him with barely-suppressed joy. “You scared us,” he admits. “Hera says you just collapsed.”

“Yes, well, the adrenaline wore off.” Kallus doesn’t look at Zeb. “I’m recovered now.”

“I know.” A smile creeps back into Zeb’s tone. “I don’t believe you can be kept down for long.”

“I can’t,” Kallus agrees, echoing Zeb’s humor.

“Do you remember anything?” Zeb stops fiddling with his pants and instead smooths out Kallus’ blanket.

“A little.” His brow furrows. “I remember that you were there for me.”

“I was.”

“The meddroid says you were with me for a full rotation.”

Zeb is suddenly very interested in a spare thread on his pants. “I was,” he mumbles, and Alexsandr suppresses another smile, glancing away so that Zeb doesn’t see.

“I didn’t want you to be alone,” Zeb continues, his shoulders slouching. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up.”

“It’s okay.” Alexsandr didn’t know his voice could go this soft, but Zeb’s next words distract him from this point, his tone just as gentle.

“I’m sorry about your leg.”

“Don’t be.” It comes out flat, and Kallus looks away from Zeb.

It will heal. He’ll walk again, but he’ll be limping and limited. He’s going to have a cane adjusted to him tomorrow. He may never do fieldwork again.

“I am.” And Zeb sounds like it too, though his expression is devoid of pity. “Still, I thought you’d like to know that everyone in command is excited to have you here. It’s all anyone can talk about.”

“Really?” A jolt of surprise travels through him. “They don’t hate me?”

He sounds sarcastic, but Zeb looks back at him, completely serious. “You saved our necks more times than we can count. And you’re a goldmine for Imperial information.”

Right. His expression falls before he can help it. “You’re a badass ‘n a hero, Kal. That’s what they care about.”

“I’m not sure if I am. Or that I will be.” Kallus gestures to his leg, bound and immobile before them both.

Zeb’s expression softens, and he rests his hand on Kallus’ arm. “Right. I’m sure that will stop you.”

“It’s different. How can I help that?”

“So are you gonna retire? Hide in the medbay or go to the Outer Rim until the war is over?”

Frustration builds in Kallus, and he sits completely upright, clenching the sheets in his hands. “It’s not that simple! Of course I’m not going to- to kriff off and die- but I  _ can’t walk!” _

“Not forever.” Zeb amends. “And you’re one of the greatest minds we have.” Zeb glances around the empty room. “Don’t tell anybody I said that.”

“I’m a former Imperial, a spy and I have months of recovery ahead. I’m not entirely convinced people want me here.”

“I do,” Zeb says immediately, then glances away, scratching the back of his head. “I, er- well, I do. And so do a lot of other people.”

Kallus looks up at him, and Zeb meets his eyes again after a long moment. “Do  _ you  _ want to be here?” He asks softly.

“Yes, I do.”

“Good.” Zeb grins, but there is tenderness in his gaze. “Then you’ll put your mind to it and everything will work out.”

“You sound very confident in this fact.”

“I’m confident in  _ you _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This did start as a 3 minute voice memo because this was supposed to be solely about Kallus’ journey with his leg and chronic pain. It has gotten way out of hand. Send help.  
> However- I hope you’ve been enjoying the story so far! Thank you everyone for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos!! It makes my day to see.


	4. Yavin IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexsandr learns to heal.

“Captain Kallus.”

Kallus turns the best he can, gripping the handle of his cane as he does. Zeb is making his way over, his tall frame parting the flow of traffic in the hall.

“Kal,” Zeb amends with a smile, brushing a hand against the small of Kallus’ back. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Kallus nods, and grimaces. “I don't suppose I can use my position to get out of physical therapy?”

“No. I’ll still carry you there myself if I have to.”

Heat flames across Kallus’ cheek, but there’s nothing he can say to defend himself. His daily routine has been centered around his recovery for weeks, despite his protestations. On his first day back, he reported to Command for an extra few hours rather than going to the medbay, which caused a small uproar among the likes of Hera and Zeb. The resulting situation was a lecture from Zeb and the entire medical staff, as well as a warning from Command as to where his priorities should lie.

But aside from the initial excitement, Kallus has settled in quite well. He has his own post and a small command to his name. He’s been forgiven by the Rebels in an official capacity, and has learned when to ignore the snide comments made by his less-forgiving compatriots. For the most part, his job is normal and steady- he’s in the company of fellow spies most of the time, but everyone on Yavin is well acquainted with danger, regardless of their roles within the Rebellion. He nearly fits in.

It would be better if he were not so limited by his physical ability. He cannot stand on his leg unsupported, so he has been using a cane constantly, save for a few small excursions across his quarters, which, so far, have been painful and short-lived.

Suddenly, Kallus is bad at keeping himself out of trouble, between his efforts to heal and his apparently lacking self-care habits. This is yet another change he attributes to rebel influence, but he rather likes it, even if he is adjusting to this new life slowly.

“You’re improving and you’re not going to stop now,” Zeb growls. He may as well be threatening Kallus, who minds this fact very little. His hand tightens on his cane.

“I know,” Kallus breathes, and drops his gaze. His next step forward is slightly unsteady, but he’s overly aware of Zeb watching him closely and that his friend is fully prepared to catch him should he trip.

Kallus hasn’t fallen in weeks. He can make it all the way across base without needing to rest now. The medics say the fracture is largely healed, and he thinks he must have made some kind of progress over the last few weeks.

“Are you coming with me?” Kallus tries not to sound too hopeful or excited; Zeb usually accompanies him to the medcenter for checkups and therapy, if only to ensure that Kallus himself actually attends.

“Of course.” Zeb glances at him. “‘Til you say you don’t want me there.”

“I do,” Kallus affirms, too quickly, and tries to discern if he’s blushing again. His face still feels hot.

They make their way down to the medcenter, where the staff greets him and Zeb both by name. The journey takes longer than he’d like, and Kallus tries not to count how many people pass him. It’s mid-afternoon by then, and his leg has started to twinge, although he turns away from Zeb and bites the inside of his cheek to get through the moments of pain.

Zeb steadies him as he strips off his jacket and boots, clutching Kallus’ left elbow. Kallus shoots him a grateful smile. He wobbles on one leg, unsteady, and he knows he will not fall.

“Ready?”

It’s not Zeb who asks, but a nurse. Cida Amada, who was one of the first people he got to know during his stay in the medcenter. She barely looks old enough to have such responsibility, with her shy smiles and soft tones, but she and Kallus took a liking to each other. They made each other cry, he lost in frustration and agony, and she hurt after discovering his tendency to yell and swear when in crippling pain. Yet once he had apologized, their relationship improved, and Amada became his primary caretaker, which most predominantly includes cajoling him into showing up for his appointments.

She and Zeb seem to adore each other for this fact. Kallus can only pretend he hates it so much.

He nods, his mouth suddenly dry, and she reaches out to take his hand. He lets her, and Cida smiles at him, not meeting his eyes for more than a few seconds.

“It’ll feel better later even if it’s uncomfortable right now, Alexsandr. How have the last few rotations been?”

She is gentle and kind. Forgiving, too, which is the strangest of offerings he’s even been gifted in his life. Kallus mostly expected to be dead by now, rather than guided through a half-stocked medbay by a medic exclusively trained by war doctors. Cida genuinely likes him, too, which is odd. Both Hera and Zeb had to assure him of this fact, though Kallus is sure she wouldn’t be capable of pretending otherwise. He first had doubts about the girl’s abilities as a liar since she apologized for taking a blood sample from him. She is too good to lie, which, he supposes, is why he’s a former Imperial-turned-spy, and she is a rebel war doctor.

Cida stretches his legs and guides him through a few exercises that should be simple but prove exceedingly difficult for Kallus. He has to touch his toes. Climb stairs. Walk 2 meters with support on either side. He grits his teeth and sweats through it, mumbling curses that Cida and Zeb pretend not to hear when he inevitably falters.

His hands shake for an hour afterward. Kallus showers and lies on his bunk, exhausted.

His leg feels better than it did before.

Had he stayed with the Empire, Kallus would have received higher quality medical care.

He might not be stuck with a limp and a cane. 

First, he would have needed to swallow his damned pride and ask for treatment, and then the initial break would not have affected him for the rest of his life. The Imperial meddroids would have returned him to normal in a matter of days, if not weeks, and Thrawn would have never rebroken the leg, even if Kallus had pursued life as Fulcrum. The Empire is equipped with better resources and better training.

But he didn’t ask for help, not upon his return from Bahryn nor any of the painful days after. Konstantine didn’t even look up at him. If anyone noticed he was uncomfortable or weaker, they politely looked away and saved that topic of discussion for when his back was turned. Kallus was alone in caring for himself, and it was thus unimportant to everyone in the Empire, including him. He adopted the same attitude regarding his own health.

Hera had caught him when he collapsed, after Atollon. Cida cried when he cried because she hated seeing him in pain. Zeb has been there for him in more ways than he can count.

Sometimes, Zeb calls him _Alex._ He hasn’t had that nickname since he was a little boy- his parents never bothered with it and he had few friends by the time he entered the Imperial Academy.

Zeb is the only one, in his entire life, who has called him _Kal._

That’s yet another thing they share. Kallus has gleamed that Zeb never fully revealed the truth of what happened on Bahryn, even to the rest of the _Ghost_ crew.

He does not know what would be enough to repay the Rebels. They have so little, yet they give to him, in time and effort and supplies and trust. It would be more just if these things were diverted to another, not to a formal Imperial, but they will not let him refuse their generosity.

Kallus would give his life for these people. For Zeb and the Spectres, certainly, but for those he does not know, too. For the ones who hurl dirty looks and harsh words at him in the mess and hallways, for Cida, for the other Fulcrums, for every rebel on Yavin and the galaxy beyond.

His life would not be enough, when they are the very people who have given it back to him. Kallus’ life is marred and stained and broken. He can offer the rebels service and secrets and loyalty, and he will do all he can to see them to victory. 

He wonders about that, too. He would be more confident about winning the war were he still an Imperial agent. He is a man of facts and logic, and he knows that the odds are against the rebels to prevail over the Empire.

But he believes in the rebels. Kallus believes in their cause and their people. That alone has carried them further than Kallus ever predicted.

He would give his life for them without thinking. He gives his hope and keeps his doubt and his cynicism, heavy as they are, so that they do not burden those like Pica and Leia Organa and Ezra Bridger.

Even as a rebel, being a spy still demands a certain mindset of coldness and hardness. Kallus is learning mercy, and he is learning how mercy does and doesn’t fit into his role. Draven has told him more than once that they serve the cause of the Rebellion, not its people.

Kallus is not sure he agrees. Draven has the end of the war in sight, and that is what grants Kallus peace of mind while the familiarity of Draven’s words nags at him.

Draven has also told Kallus that he is still useful, despite his leg. The General had looked at Kallus with pity while he had said it. Kallus will prove him wrong, and his heart sings with a small amount of pride with the knowledge of the difference he has made already under and to Draven’s command.

Kallus is trying to be good in his new role. He is also trying to become someone worthy of the friendship and care that the rebels have shown him.

He wants to be accepted by them. He wants to be their friend.

“Alexsandr!”

The use of his full first name startles him, nearly as much as the alarm in Zeb’s voice does. Zeb is staring at him from across the hangar, Hera by his size. The droid, Chopper, makes some obscene noise that Kallus can only assume is scolding.

The trio is at his side quickly, and Kallus grunts as he loads the shipment onto the shuttle.

“I can do that,” Hera says. She sounds mildly scandalized, and she takes the box from his hands. Chopper wags his mechanical arm at Kallus, and emits a horrifying cackle at the indignation on his face.

“No cane?” Zeb sounds surprised, but Kallus has had a good few days. He’s permitted not to use it for short amounts of time, given that his leg doesn’t start hurting. He and Cida are hoping that this will become the norm, that he will only need his cane some days. Kallus has floated the idea of field missions once or twice already, but he’ll push for more unsupervised walking first.

“Not for a while.” It’s nearly strange not to have the cane in his hand, but he’s been making good use of his free hands for a while. Then: “General, I assure you I am very capable of doing that.”

Kallus tries to take the next box from Hera, who passes to Zeb. In turn, he holds the box over their heads, then sets it in the shuttle.

“You could hurt yourself,” Hera chides. “Let us help you.”

“Lifting a few crates will hardly send me into critical condition,” Kallus protests, but the words are weakened when Hera glares at him. Chopper laughs again. “My leg is injured, not my arms.”

“No extra weight,” Zeb reminds him, taking another box from Hera. “Don’t strain yourself.”

“It’s just-”

“We’re happy to help,” Hera interrupts. She exchanges a look with Zeb, and Kallus bites back a retort. He’s perfectly capable.

The next time he sees Cida, Kallus is sure to mention lightening the restrictions on his carrying weight. She’s willing to negotiate, at the very least, and they argue until it’s agreed that Kallus can lift, but not carry, a few kilos. He’s sure to complain very little for the rest of the session, and the nurse sends him away with a smile at the end of the day.

She tells him he’s making progress; a statement constantly echoed by Zeb. Physical therapy becomes easier and less frequent; he’s fully adjusted to using his cane, although he has started to go many days without it. At first, it’s painful- he can only endure the day without his cane if he stays in Command, but then weeks pass and he can move around base on his own. He’s outfitted with temporary mechanical braces, and he goes on his first field mission as a rebel.

The days are not bad, and the initial mission goes smoothly, as do all the ones after that.

When night falls after he returns, Kallus can barely stand, and the pain reduces him mostly immobile.

Cida worms this fact out of him after he spends two rotations chasing down a rogue informant. He had been late to see her, and stiff and quiet during their appointment.

“You’ll make it worse,” she warns him. His leg has been swelling, too. “Too much at once will only hurt you.”

“I’m useful out there,” Kallus insists, staring at his injured leg. It would be a waste if he remained on base all the time. “If I can get stronger, then I can fight.”

Cida sighs, her eyes full of worry. Kallus looks away, his heart poisoned with guilt. “If you keep doing this, you may last a few months or a cycle. After that, you could spend the rest of your life walking with pain and assistance.”

He nods once. That’s as much time as he needs, regardless of what follows.

Kallus has greater potential than what his leg allows. He could be one of the best ground fighters on base, if his body worked right.

“Does your leg hurt?”

Kallus grunts. “My leg always hurts.” He shifts, moving his lower body as little as possible, but Zeb moves into his full view a moment later.

“You shoulda said something on way back-”

“I’m fine, Zeb.”

“Your cane-”

“It hurts with or without the cane,” Kallus snaps, then averts his eyes. Zeb’s ears flatten, and Kallus’ stomach flips.

“Are you gonna use it now?” Zeb asks quietly. They still don’t look at each other.

Kallus reaches for the offending object and thumps it against the ground. “Yes,” he mutters. That’s the only reason he got here, in some dirty corner of the base. The cane saw him back from the medbay and into the spot where he had chosen to sulk.

Apparently, the covert location wasn’t quite private enough. That, or Zeb knows him too well, because he seems to have sought Kallus out with ease. But here he is, sitting on the floor with Kallus and watching the rest of the Rebellion walk by, totally oblivious to their discussion.

“Today is a bad day,” Kallus says. That’s how he measures time- in good days and bad ones. “I’ve been having a lot of those, recently.”

“You’ve been working hard.”

“I want to go back to normal,” Kallus mutters, rolling his eyes. “I’m sick of being weak. I’m tired.” He smiles at Zeb, his lips thin and pursed. “I’m done.”

 _“Alex.”_ Zeb is imploring.”How could you think you’re weak?”

“Because I can’t walk down the damned hallway!” Kallus scoffs. “Because I have gone through all this suffering and I am not better! And all I wish is that it would end!”

“That makes you weak, does it?”

“It doesn’t make me strong, Garazeb. Not the way you think I am.”

The Lasat next to him snorts. “Kal, I have seen you walk through hell and back-”

“That doesn’t make-”

“- I know how strong you are,” Zeb finishes, talking over him. “Do you trust me?”

Kallus blanches, his heart pounding. “Of course.”

“Then believe me when I say you’re strong.”

“I’ve never seen it that way.”

The words are nearly inaudible. It’s a shamefaced confession, and Zeb stares at him with wide eyes, taking both of Alexsandr’s hands in his.

“Just because I _survived_ doesn’t mean I’m a martyr, Zeb. Or some inspiration to look up to.”

“That’s half of one of the many reasons I care for you,” Zeb whispers, his voice so, so low. “Not because you’ve managed to survive, but because of how determined you are. It’s the stupid face you make when you’re concentrating and the way your voice gets all high when you tell me about how fine and capable you are.” Zeb chuckles, and Kallus is very acutely aware that Zeb is sitting so close to him that their thighs are touching. “You’ve always been so damn stubborn.”

“You like that about me?” Some alarmed voice in Alexsandr’s head warns him that this is barely tangential to the topic at hand.

“Yeah.” Zeb’s ears twitch, and he drops his eyes from Kallus’ wondrous stare. “Even if it pisses me off.”

“I know it does.”

“Yeah,” Zeb growls, then he deflates as he sighs. “I’ve always known that about you. Even when you were trying to kill me.” He gestures to Kallus, to his brace and cane. “Seeing you recover is another way you’re proving this to me. Your absurd relentlessness. And your strength.” He glowers at Kallus when he says the last word, as if daring him to object. “You’ve always had that.”

“Someone better would have handled it with grace.”

“Maybe.” Zeb shrugs. “You’re tough, not a saint.”

“Thank you, Garazeb.”

Zeb rolls his eyes, shoving against Kallus’ shoulder gently. “Whatever.” He clears his throat. “Maybe all this made you stronger. I don’t care if you get back to normal, or whatever you’ve dreamed up for yourself. I only want you to be happy with where you were.”

“And go to physical therapy.”

“I don’t want you to be in pain.”

“Right.”

Zeb grins. “By the way, if you didn’t want the hurt from your serious injury to go away, then you’re twice as big of an idiot as I thought you were. I have no idea what else you expected.”

“I expected for it to last a few weeks. Not the rest of my life.”

“There’s nothing wrong with wishing for that.” Zeb looks up at the trees, and Kallus thinks of a burning world, razed to the ground by the Empire. Zeb didn’t come away from Lasan unscathed, he knows. “Whatever happens though, here you are, Kal. Even if all you’ve done is survive.”

Alexsandr reaches out for Zeb’s hand, and his friend takes it. Zeb’s words are muddled with affection and friendship and respect. The person Zeb describes sounds like someone Kallus can appreciate. Somebody with an iron will and a conviction for the right kind of things. Somebody worthy of love.

That night, Kallus cannot rest. He wanders the halls, on a dreadfully familiar path- the one Zeb takes him on when Kallus has to stretch out his leg. His feet carry him into the cool night air, his cane thumping against the stone after every uneven step.

Kallus searches for privacy, but he cannot make it far outside the base. There are still lights blinking from the hangars and a quiet bustle of nightlife shows that the base is still busy, but Kallus staggers along as far as he can and settles on a log under the cover of some trees.

“Can’t sleep?”

Alexsandr jumps, then he squints in the dark. Some 30 feet away is Kanan Jarrus, sitting on the forest floor with his legs folded beneath him. He appears to be meditating; his shoulder pauldrons and mask are off, and he sounds relaxed.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Kallus calls. He fumbles with his cane and readies himself to stand; he’s still slightly out of breath and now he has nowhere to go.

“No.” Kanan stands instead and approaches Kallus, nimbly stepping over branches and rocks. Kallus stares up at the blind Jedi, then averts his gaze when Kanan takes a seat next to him.

They sit together in silence. Kallus doesn’t mind the company very much; he fiddles with his hands and does his best to ignore the aching in his leg.

“It’s lonely, isn’t it?” Kanan says finally. He turns to Kallus expectantly.

Kallus gives a nervous chuckle. “What is?”

“Healing.” Kanan opens his hands as if he’s referring to the whole jungle, instead. “Even with the people who love you at your side.”

Kallus opens his mouth to protest- he’s not sure _who_ loves him, even if a few people come to mind- but the depth of Kanan’s words hit him a moment later.

“I don’t-” Kallus struggles for the right words. “I don’t believe I’m alone.”

Kanan nods slowly. “I had Hera with me every step of the way. She’s the most understanding, caring person I know.” Then, Kanan shrugs. “But it was impossible for her to understand what it was like, no matter how hard she tried. It was lonely.”

“Yes,” Kallus says slowly, exhaling. “Even- even-”

“Zeb doesn’t understand?” He can hear the humor in Kanan’s voice, although Kallus cannot piece together why Kanan would be amused. “I think that’d be impossible unless he’d been through it, too.”

“Do you know anyone who did?”

Kanan shakes his head. “Not quite.” He smiles, and again, Kallus can’t comprehend why. “I had to find solace in other places.”

“Do you think you’re on the other side?”

“Of recovery?” Kallus inclines his head. “Yes. It’s different now.” Kanan’s smile becomes wistful. “But there’s no going back.”

“You made it through.”

“I did. And you will too. In time.”

“I want it to be over.” The confession falls from Kallus’ lips before he can help it. “I’m so tired of being in pain.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think it will ever pass.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then…” Kallus sighs. “Then I move forward with it, anyway.”

There’s no other choice. He will stay with the rebels until the end, and he will do so however he can. He could lose his leg tonight or he could wake up entirely healed tomorrow morning. Either way, there will be little change to his plans.

“I thought you’d say that.” Kanan rests his hand on Kallus’ knee. “It gets easier.”

“I know.” It has already. Maybe Zeb is right. Maybe he is strong because of what he has survived, and maybe there’s truth to Kanan’s words, too. 

“I think you’ll find someone who makes it less lonely. I believe you’ll find yourself on the other side.”

Kallus bows his head in acknowledgment, suddenly exhausted. “Zeb will be yours again, once we get back from Lothal.” Kanan’s seriousness disappears, and Kallus knows the moment has passed. He can’t help that the corners of his lips are quirking up, and Kanan seems to both know and enjoy this fact.

“You leave soon?” The thought is bittersweet; the Lothal rebels returning home again, and Zeb will leave his side.

“Three rotations.” Kanan answers. His tone has become heavy again, but the Jedi does not sound afraid.

“I wish you luck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Dr. Paul Brand recalled attending a lecture given by anthropologist Margaret Mead, who spent much of her life studying primitive cultures. She asked her audience a series of questions: “What is the earliest sign of civilization? A clay pot? Iron? Tools? Agriculture?”  
> “No,” she claimed. To her, evidence of the earliest true civilization was a healed femur, a leg bone, which she held up before everyone in the lecture hall. She explained that such healings were never found in the remains of competitive, savage societies. There, clues of violence abounded: temples pierced by arrows, skulls crushed by clubs.  
> But the healed femur showed that someone must have cared for the injured person—hunted on his or her behalf, brought them food, and served them at personal sacrifice. Savage societies could not afford such pity."


	5. Lira San

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war ends.

The war ends.

Alexsandr never could have predicted how it came to be. Kanan killed, and Ezra lost. The grief was unimaginable, but seeing Hera and Zeb endure it was worse.

He held Zeb when his friend finally cried. He talked him through the grief and was there at night when the terrors came and the loss was inescapable.

But there were happy moments amongst the sorrow. Jacen, arriving just before the battle of Yavin, and with him, the bright blue of Kanan’s eyes. The destruction of the first Deathstar, and Alexsandr’s realization that the Rebellion might prevail. A new hope that rose, a Jedi and a new generation to lead them.

Zeb’s hand in his, and their mutual refusal not to let go. Kissing Zeb for the first time, then a thousand times after that. Saying  _ I love you  _ and meaning it like never before.

He learns how to accept loss. He learns the price of love, the good and the bad, and Zeb is by his side the whole time.

There are some wounds that will never fade; they cut too deep, and Alexsandr, like the rebels, will carry those scars with him for the rest of his life.

They seek peace- ways to move on but not forget. Honor those they lost in the war but never the violence itself. 

The whole of the galaxy is changed after Endor, Alex and Zeb along with it. To Alexsandr, his time spent with the Empire feels lightyears away. He would be unrecognizable to his former self, in body and in mind.

He pushed himself to the limit, he knows. In the months before Endor, Alexsandr worked harder than he ever had in his life, until he collapsed again and Cida gently explained that this time, he was past the point of no return. They could operate and do physical therapy, like they had the first time. But he would never walk without assistance again.

It’s a hard pill to swallow, at the end of the war. When the Emperor dies, he is on a Command ship, with Zeb on the ground, fighting in the forest below. Alexsandr risks running when they’re reunited at the celebration that follows, and he falls into Zeb’s arms, dazed by joy and pain. His lover sobs into the embrace, and tells Alex that he loves him, that he’s unbelievably stupid, and then he asks Alexsandr to marry him.

They retire together. Alexsandr cannot fight anymore, and they both have been at war for as long as they can remember. It is time for calm and rest.

He finds them on Lira San, in his home and garden and new community. He never imagined a life of peace, least of all in a surviving Lasat colony. Alexsandr also never pictured the hurt that he would carry with him, the chronic pain that never quite leaves.

So it is different. He figures out new ways to do things; Alexsandr has always been good at thinking on his feet. It’s easier here, now that he can spend his days building a life with the one he loves. Together, they forge their own future, which starts anew yet again when they marry. Zeb holds Alex steady, their hands intertwined, as they profess their love for each other and become one in soul. He had worried he would trip or fall during the ceremony, but Zeb would never let that happen, so there is no incident aside from the flood of tears that interrupts them both. Afterward, they dance under the stars and trees, and Alexsandr rests his right foot on top of Zeb’s so they can twirl around with ease. The music is slow- it matches their pace.

Then there is the next challenge- how can he hold his kits with only one free arm? Their first daughter, an infant when they take her in, is the one he struggles with most. Alexsandr would be afraid of dropping her even with he had both hands to hold her with. But he figures it out, with patience and practice. It gets harder as she gets bigger, but it turns out that Zeb’s limit is four kits crawling on him at once, so Alexsandr is fine with taking whatever child that doesn’t feel up to clinging to their father’s limbs.

Their children, all five, know to be gentle with Alexsandr. He explains what it’s like, to be restricted in some ways, but most of their fascination stems from the fact that he’s human, not that his leg is permanently wounded. It is normal for them, and they only know him this way. It is barely odd, by then, that he is accepted without question.

It is enough, to see the joy on his children’s faces as he raises them, Alex’s adoration and pride reflected in Zeb. He becomes known in town for his babysitting skills and his flowers- for love and growth and small things of beauty.

He tucks his children into bed one night. His leg has been hurting all day, but that is part of life, and Zeb is waiting for him, so that he may distract from and ease the pain. Zeb knows he’s coming from the cadence of his footfalls; he smiles as Alexsandr comes through the door.

“I think I’ve done it,” Alexsandr breathes, settling down on their bed next to Zeb. His husband raises his brow, and Alex sighs. “Become worthy of your love. And this life with you.”

"Alexsandr." His first name has so often been an admonishment, but when Zeb says it, the word is full of unfettered love. "You never had to earn my love. You had it all along."

"All along?" The question is accompanied by a raised eyebrow. He and Zeb have a long history together, and few generalizations can pass without comment.

Alexsandr's husband rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean. You never had to prove yourself." Zeb draws Alex closer to his side. "You never had to make yourself worthy. I loved you before you became exactly who you are today. I loved you while you changed and I love you now."

His throat tightens and Alex suspects he is not the only one close to tears.

"I've always been broken." Zeb is chiding himself for this very sentiment now, but Alexsandr can see the countless victims of the Empire before him, clear as day. His leg aches.

Zeb chuckles, though he seems mostly saddened by these words. He presses his forehead against Alexsandr's and rests there for a long moment.

"Life has always been hard," Zeb says gruffly, holding Alexsandr’s hand in both of his own. "And to survive despite that fact doesn't make you less worthy of love."

It is a lesson he learns and unlearns. There are days when it is not so easy to remember, and there are days when he feels there is nothing in the galaxy that could interrupt his happiness, here with his family on this wonderful world.

It’s difficult to remember life before. The injury is part of him, begrudgingly but finally accepted. Alexsandr has tried his hardest- he forced his body to the limit and beyond. Yet Zeb, Sabine, Hera, Jacen, his children- they love him as he tries and succeeds and fails. Zeb is there to help him up, or kneel down and tell Alexsandr to keep going.

There is no after. He will always be wounded, never the person he used to be.

He is complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was 5 times longer than I thought it would be. Typical.  
> I’ve been moved by the response to this fic- it’s introspective rather than action-packed or tense or full of dialogue. It started out with a focus on Kallus’ recovery journey (an echo of a similar period of convalescence in my life) and became something more. I’ve struggled to put into words what this fic is about at its core- something along the lines of healing and self-love and forgiveness. I know all too well how difficult it is to forgive yourself and your body for not living up to expectations. Ideally, this story represents that.  
> Thank you to everyone who read and left comments and kudos. I’m always blown away by the kind and supportive nature of the Kalluzeb and Rebels fandoms, and it was my privilege to share this with all of you.


End file.
